Antiquus

for Bill

You are old. It may be faux pas to say so
but you are, I are, we are, irreversibly, determinedly old.
What breach we
once more into went, what hearts like a hero
we equal tempered up and did not, after seeking, yield
are dangerously

slipping into old. Stories now seem to be remember when
and our jokes are lost on all but our chuckling selves.
Happy birthday,
pal. I’ve appreciated your help these years in fleeing sin,
and our thousand faces we wear to fill our shelves.
We are old, let’s say.

Though we may never vow it to priest or preacher,
wife or loving child, let’s not suffer Henry’s fate
with last wave and decided drop.
After all, we know morning coffee and the plan, the teacher
pose, the hurry-up and the standards to be met, and the brave wait
to somehow be men not props.